


manticores and noble last words

by redkay



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Season one drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:47:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28744962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redkay/pseuds/redkay
Summary: In the event (oh, alright then, the inevitability) of his death at the hands of this monster, the chances of Merlin returning to Camelot to deliver news of any sort are quite slim, which Arthur finds both galling (the idea of Merlin being cold and lifeless is surprisingly unpleasant) and a little comforting (he’s not entirely sure a servant will be assigned to him in the afterlife, so bringing one along seems rather forward-thinking of him, a trait Arthur has rarely been accused of in life)
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 54





	manticores and noble last words

“I think it’s a manticore,” Merlin says helpfully, spitting out the dirt he swallowed upon his dramatic reunion with solid ground. “Gaius says they’re really rare, I never thought we’d see one up close.”

“I’ve never understood who names these creatures,” Arthur replies, not at all cowering behind a conveniently felled tree. “Personally, my priority is not to determine proper nomenclature for the mad beast trying to eat me.”

As he charges towards the creature with a slightly strangled war cry, Arthur spares a moment to regret that he had not put a little more effort into what would likely be his last words.

Luckily, for once, Merlin has a rather loose relationship with facts and reality even on the best of days, and could surely be relied upon to invent something more courageous and noble, or at the very least clever, for his final goodbye.

Of course, given their earlier disagreement over breakfast (Arthur had constructively pointed out that the porridge was mealy; Merlin had replied that perhaps if Arthur invested in some remedial lessons on how to boil water he might eventually have a leg to stand on and the conversation ended shortly after with Merlin’s face covered in mealy stew and the strong implication that Arthur’s next meals would be flavored with one of Merlin’s bodily fluids. The degree of ambiguity surrounding which particular fluid had preoccupied Arthur the rest of the morning, which, if one were looking for someone to blame, could be responsible for their current predicament) he is more likely to use his talent for embellishment to ensure Arthur goes down in history as the crown prince who used his last breaths to bestow upon his manservant a knighthood.

He’s made it halfway across the clearing and is starting to think think that perhaps he should turn back for some clarifying words with Merlin, just to make sure they’re all on the same page about what exactly will be related to his father upon his imminent death and the consequences of using something as irrelevant as his death as an excuse to disrespect his prince, when two things occur to him in rapid succession:

One: In the event (oh, alright then, the inevitability) of his death at the hands of this monster, the chances of Merlin returning to Camelot to deliver news of any sort are quite slim, which Arthur finds both galling (the idea of Merlin being cold and lifeless is surprisingly unpleasant) and a little comforting (he’s not entirely sure a servant will be assigned to him in the afterlife, so bringing one along seems rather forward-thinking of him, a trait Arthur has rarely been accused of in life); and

Two: He needs to stop sprint-training with his knights, because all too soon he’s in front of the beast, who is watching him approach with the sort of vague interest a lion might afford a gnat.

The next thing he knows, the monster is swinging its tail and Arthur finds himself thrown backwards in what he has just enough sense to note is a rather suspicious trajectory, landing exactly where he started, his head cushioned by Merlin’s bony thighs.

“I imagine it’s for the bards,” Merlin continues, unperturbed by the interruption and panting as though he’s exerted himself in _any way_. “Hard to find words that rhyme with ‘scary evil monster that can kill us from any end he chooses.’ And if there are no rhymes, there will be no songs to describe the heroic great deeds. And if I know anything about knights, it’s that they like their songs.”

“Songs always get it wrong, anyway,” Arthur grumbles, rolling off Merlin’s lap and taking stock of all the new parts of the body he’s learned can feel pain.

Merlin mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “How would you know, you don’t have any yet,” which is a patented lie, it’s only that not many bards come to Camelot’s court since the time his father had a troupe of performers executed for telling tales of a great mage who rode a carpet in the sky when Arthur was twelve. It was a pretty inane song, granted, but perhaps the pyre had been a bit of an overreaction.

He considers pointing this out to Merlin, but he has a strong suspicion that conversation will devolve into Merlin insisting on hearing the magic carpet story and Arthur’s not sure he has the breath to sustain the lecture about proper times and places he can feel forming in his throat, witty and bruising though it would undoubtedly be.

“I don’t suppose Gaius said anything else about these beasts, besides that we’re unlikely to ever see one,” he says instead.

Merlin’s face does that endearing scrunching thing it tends to do when he’s contemplating the evidently vast amounts of magical knowledge that he’s not supposed to have. Arthur really needs to take a closer look at Gaius’ ‘medical’ library one of these days. “I think their tails are poisonous, or maybe their bites. Something is definitely poisonous, so try not to let it get you. Again. Oh, and it can jump really - agh!” 

Arthur thinks he can probably guess the end of that sentence, as the beast lands in front of them with an earth rumbling crash and what Arthur is quite sure is a self-satisfied smirk. 

Arthur turns to Merlin and says, enunciating clearly for the sake of posterity, “For the love of Camelot!” and has just enough time to raise his sword and mutter a prayer to whatever deity usually looks out for him in these situations when Merlin, swift as the stupid manticore, and really what a dumb name, throws himself in the way of the beast’s great gaping maw.

Even the manticore seems shocked at the vast and yawning chasms of his manservant’s idiocy and for a moment Arthur feels a kinship with the creature and wonders if perhaps they could bond, _why, you think hurling his unarmed body in between my sword and a monster that could eat him in one bite and still be hungry is stupid, let me tell you about the time he drank poison just to prove it was poison._

That hope comes to a rather abrupt end when the manticore decides that even mentally afflicted idiots probably taste just as good as princes. He rears forward and Merlin, the moron, stands tall and refuses to even flinch. Arthur leans around him to thrust his sword into the underbelly of the beast, pulling Merlin back with his free hand a hair too late to stop the beast’s teeth graze his arm.

Merlin gasps in surprise and Arthur wants to ask exactly what he thought was going to happen when he offered himself up to be a monster’s breakfast, but he’s too busy stumbling back blindly, his sword hanging impotently at his side, one hand fisted in Merlin’s tunic.

“I say we run,” Arthur says, and for once, Merlin doesn’t put up a fight.


End file.
